


living the past in the future (another time, present)

by interropunct



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (because he deserves to be taken care of!!), Alt Jonathan "Jon" Sims, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Canon Asexual Character, D/s relationship, Jewish Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Pining Martin Blackwood, Sub Martin Blackwood, Trans Martin Blackwood, ace author, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interropunct/pseuds/interropunct
Summary: Martin’s your average depressed 20-something sleepwalking through life. No prospects, no one in the world he cares for or who cares for him. Finding and falling for a man he meets online is just what Martin needs. And John, his kinky internet boyfriend, is of course nothing like Jon, Martin’s childhood best friend and first love. Because,obviously.The past is over, childhood dead; our memories the only ghosts.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 55
Kudos: 216
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Bored

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve got a lot of people to thank for helping with this project.
> 
> First off Juno, my amazing artist-collaborator on this Big Bang. Their art will be embedded in the final chapter but you can already check them out on [Tumblr](https://the-lady-flame.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/yowhatisuppeeps), or [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/yowhatisuppeeps/)! They were fantastic to work with and their art (as you will see) is incredible, so thanks Juno!
> 
> Secondly, Sarah a.k.a @neiljosten on Tumblr who a) is no longer active in fandom, and b) has not finished listening to TMA, after c) I made her listen to the podcast in the first place. And yet _still_ agreed to beta this fic for me like an angel.
> 
> Thirdly, the PilesofNonsense mods for running a really nice and well-organized Big Bang. It was a pleasure to participate!
> 
> Lastly but super importantly, BeanestBean on Discord and [Equalseleventhirds](https://equalseleventhirds.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. BeanestBean for reading a (censored) version of this fic to help me with the Tagalog and general Filipino!Martin details. And Algie for the [Filipino!Martin content](https://equalseleventhirds.tumblr.com/tagged/filipino%21martin) that was so lovely and compelling that it inspired and informed Martin’s race and a lot of characterization/themes in this fic. Seriously, thank you so much for letting me write in the space you made and for reading the fic, it would not have been the same without you.
> 
> That said, despite all the lovely people who have helped with this fic, there may be remaining errors, which are entirely mine. Feel free to come talk to me about that or anything else on [Tumblr](https://interropunct.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/interropunct).
> 
> Okay, long fucking author’s note almost done. Just quickly, some warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Casual / joking discussion of mental health and suicidal ideation from characters who are depressed  
> -Vaguely self-destructive behaviors  
> -Oversharing with strangers over the internet  
> -Little bits of internalized aphobia from Martin (it is _not_ weird to start dating for the first time in your mid-20s)

The thing about spending most of your adult life deeply depressed was that you got to be 26 and everything felt boring. Even being suicidal was boring after a while. It was mostly habit now. The way other people would think, on the tube ride home, “Hmm wonder what I could have for dinner?” Martin thought, “Hmm I could kill myself, that way I wouldn’t have to deal with those gross leftovers in the fridge.” But then he would remember that he didn’t have any supplies or plan or really much of anything besides an idle thought and some subpar leftovers. So he would think, “Oh well, guess I’ll try reheating them on the stove. Maybe add a bit of bagoong or something to make it more palatable.”

It was strange, living like that: mostly going through life on pure inertia, a combination of habit and the path of least resistance. When the occasional good thing came along, it felt distant and hazy, like the fading memory of sun. Martin understood that most people didn’t live like this, presumably. But it was all he’d known for so long it was hard to get worked up about it. It just felt like part of adult life: death, taxes, work, sleep, depression.

He wasn’t doing too bad, overall. He’d done his “online guided self-help” sessions that the NHS had so helpfully provided, and the six allotted therapy sessions following it. They hadn’t really helped but there was a feeling adjacent to accomplishment. An increment better than letting hope rot in his chest.

He had a steady job, even if it didn’t pay enough by an order of magnitude. When his mother passed last year his expenses had taken a dip. He couldn’t be grateful, not for that, not for losing the last person he cared about, but well... it did help with budgeting.

However, the small boost in money didn’t change as much as he expected. Martin wasn’t sure he really knew how to be happy anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he was already happy, if this was what happy adult life looked like, and he just couldn’t recognize contentment for what it was.

The leftover pinakbet was fine. It was possible that he’d been disappointed when he first tried it because it didn’t taste anything like his mother used to make. Just familiar-yet-wrong enough that his heart had twisted painfully in his chest.

He ended up sharing the meal with his roommate, Sasha, in exchange for half her joint. He didn’t know where Sasha got the good stuff but even half a joint successfully softened the edges of Martin’s brain. Eventually she finished getting ready and headed out to the club. She even asked him if he wanted to come. He laughed, maybe a tad bitterly. He was not a clubbing type of person. Sasha just shrugged and went on her way.

He wondered what it would be like to be that person. To be in grad school, like Sasha, and go out on the weekends and bring back that one fit friend to fool around with quite frequently. He might as well fantasize about attending Hogwarts. It was similarly far-fetched and slightly depressing to contemplate.

Lying on the couch, TV on but ignored, phone held a few inches in front of his face, he wished he had some beer in the house. He hated the taste but when he was even a little high he always got a craving for it. It occurred to him that he could get it delivered. After all, it was the bold new future and this was London; he could probably get some expensive microbrew that tasted like creamsicles and piss delivered to his door in twenty minutes with a little Googling.

He wasn’t going to, but he could.

Eventually he ran out of Twitter feed to mindlessly scroll through. He rested the phone for a minute against his nose and just breathed, feeling a bit like he was underwater.

Then, to escape that thought, he picked the phone back up and idly flipped through apps. He found himself looking through profiles of old school mates on Facebook. Well, mates might have been a strong word. He’d dropped out at seventeen and hadn’t spoken to any of these people since, but still it felt novel and comfortingly cutting to see them now. See how many of his old bullies were posing with babies or had “manager” in their most recent job title. Somehow he’d forgotten how many blindingly pale Charles’s and dead-eyed smiling Peter’s he’d known. He was at least happy to see that they had not as a whole grown up to be an attractive lot. Although, they still had pictures with their arms around women much fitter than them and Martin was certain that they at least were not 26-year-old virgins with zero relationship experience.

He tasted the bitterness in the back of his throat and almost closed out of Facebook entirely.

But a name in his friends list caught his eye and Martin paused.

**Jonathan Sims**

He tapped the name without really thinking about it.

The profile picture had a blurry brown hand in the foreground, caught in motion giving a two-finger salute to a black woman mid-uproarious laughter in the center of the frame. There were no other photos, although Martin looked twice. The profile did say Jon had attended Oxford though and Martin closed the app before he could look any further.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that everyone seemed to be living better, fuller, happier lives than Martin. That they had people who loved them and Martin had no one. Perhaps never had.

Feeling significantly worse, Martin went back to clicking on apps at random, opening and closing half a dozen in quick succession.

Then the black icon with a slash of red color caught his eye.

It was a queer dating app, one of about a million that Martin had tried at various points in time. The conceit of this one was that it was a) kinky and b) entirely text based. You could post personals and scroll through other people’s.

He didn’t even really know why he’d downloaded it. He wasn’t even kinky.

Okay, that was a lie. He knew exactly why he’d gotten it. Because he had no experience with kink but he had no experience with anything else so that didn’t mean much.

And he... liked the idea. Of letting someone else take over for a minute. Of being taken care of. Of being hurt and then held sweetly afterward.

Hell, even the reverse had some merit. To give someone what they wanted, needed, and have them accept it gladly. It sounded pretty nice, in his head.

As he probably should have expected, most of the site had been basically poorly written first-person erotica. Which really didn’t interest him.

Erotica in general he liked. It gave him vicarious enjoyment even when he didn’t actually masturbate. It was as close to real intimacy as he’d ever been.

But the over-the-top posturing of the posts on this app didn’t have anything particularly interesting.

Still, he’d made exactly one post, a few weeks ago. It had read:

> “26, queer, filipino, trans man. break me or I’ll do it myself. mend me or I can try you. tell me a secret and I’ll give you one of mine.”

And then he had second guessed himself and closed the app, silenced notifications for it, and never looked back.

Well, now he was looking. The eye-sore of the black and red color scheme made him squint, but the glowing **(7)** next to the envelope-shaped symbol was easy to see.

He didn’t know if seven responses was high or low, but he decided to be flattered. He clicked on the first message and immediately was met with a graphic description of a “secret” sexual fantasy. He rolled his eyes. Probably should have expected that.

The next three were similar. Martin wondered if he was supposed to be getting turned on. Maybe it was the SSRIs, but he suspected being called a dirty slut by someone with the username “BigDaddy79” just wasn’t his thing. God this whole thing was stupid.

He clicked on the fifth message, which was just sent a day ago.

> “PoeticalFlame,
> 
> Your prompt was very ‘All-American Rejects music video from 2005’ but I’ll overlook that. Here, a secret that I’m still willing to tell a complete stranger: I never thought I’d live this long. Not because I had some rare childhood cancer or anything of that sort. But I nearly died in a car crash when I was very young and some part of me always felt like I was living on borrowed time. Only now, at twenty-five, is it starting to sink in that I actually have to live my life instead of getting to skip out early. I want someone to commiserate with. Someone to say “wow, sun revolved around the earth again, already? Take a day off for once” or at least make the nights go quicker.
> 
> Anyway, probably a depressing secret. Maybe yours will be less so.
> 
> @WatchedMyselves”

Martin read it three times. The dig featuring 2000s pop punk was funny, in kind of a dickish way. And the rest…

Martin felt as if he understood. He hadn’t had a traumatic childhood experience. But every time he remembered that he had upward of another 60 years of this he felt incredibly tired. “Getting to skip out early” hit Martin harder than it probably should have.

Absently, he looked through the other two messages. One was a boring come-on. The other was pretty clearly a bot.

He deleted all but the one from WatchedMyselves.

It was, Martin noted, a pleasantly inoffensive username. Something almost familiar about it.

He clicked on the username, but the app didn’t really support a robust profile. Instead it was just a pronoun field (“he/him. they/them some days.”), a city (“London”), and a box to fill with a bio (empty).

Martin thumbed back to the message, read it again.

He opened a reply message, fought the gut instinct to say some polite lie, and instead tapped out:

> “Hey WatchedMyselves,
> 
> I can’t say I have much in the way of non-depressing secrets. But I appreciate your candidness, so I’ll give you two for the price of one.
> 
> 1) I’ve never been in a relationship. I only had top surgery last year and before that I couldn’t even really think about being intimate with anyone. Relationships were things other people had. There was no one I trusted that much.
> 
> 2) Sometimes I just want to sleep for a year. Pause the world, step outside of it. Go to the beach and fall asleep at low tide. Wake up covered in barnacles. I think if that’s what subspace is like, then I’d never do anything else.
> 
> -M”

Just sending that message felt like exorcising a small bit of the leaden scum from his lungs.

There was something easy about opening up to someone who had no idea who you were. You didn’t have to think of them as a real person existing in the same plane of reality as you. It was freeing.

Martin thought he could probably sleep now. Probably for 16 hours straight, if his normal weekend sleep patterns were anything to go by. But that would require getting up, brushing his teeth, getting into sleep clothes. On second thought maybe he’d just check Twitter again, that seemed easier.

But when he looked at his phone, the dating app was still open and there was a little **(1)** at the top.

Had he forgotten to read one?

He clicked on it.

> “It’s rather hard to address a message to a single letter. Look at it:
> 
> M,
> 
> It looks silly. But “Dear M” is too formal, even for me.
> 
> Can you tell I’m flustered by your response? I don’t usually have much luck with these types of apps. I keep trying but honestly I think it’s more masochism than anything. Which should be a plus on this particular app, but it isn’t.
> 
> I’ve been in a few relationships. Enough to decide I’m not very good at most of it. A good one is worth it though, I think. Anyway, one of my best friends is actually my ex and she (I’m bi, that better not be an issue) introduced me to kink. I don’t generally do sex and non-sexual kink is hard to find and arrange, but when it’s good it’s very good. And occasionally even sex can be appealing with the right trappings.
> 
> I’m rambling, I think.
> 
> I don’t want to be covered in barnacles, but a nap on the beach sounds lovely. Or a voluntary coma, one I could wake up from when I wanted to. Ideal.
> 
> I mean, I know that’s the long day at work talking. But after this many long days, it sounds better and better.
> 
> \- John”

Martin was typing before he’d even begun to process the message.

> “Dear Mr. (Mx.?) WatchedMyselves,
> 
> There is no degree of formality too great when conducting an intercourse on the topic of adult life’s meaninglessness and our shared ennui.
> 
> But really, what do you mean “even for me”? Are you a terribly stodgy twenty-five year old? Do old ladies coo over you and call you an “old soul”?
> 
> It’s funny how day-to-day masochism and fun-sexy masochism don’t actually overlap as much as you’d think. I’ve got plenty of experience with the former and it has yet to lead to any of the latter.
> 
> I’ve never put a label on it, but the idea of sex is certainly… complicated. I suppose if I’ve gotten to 26 without ever having any of it that’s probably a sign of… something. Anyway, neither that nor bi-ness is an issue whatsoever. I thought about taking issue with your ex being your best friend, but then I considered the alternative and men who call their exes crazy bitches are universally a bad lot so I’ve decided I approve. (I’m sure you were worried about my opinion not at all of course.) Non-sexual kink sounds nice. I’m not really sure what that would entail but I’m intrigued. “The right trappings” sound like they could be good too.
> 
> Comas aren’t as restful as they seem. I read up on them a lot when my mum was sick and some of them come with scary hallucinations and shit. Sleeping on the bottom of the ocean on the other hand is a completely foolproof relaxation method.
> 
> Also not to psychoanalyze you but is it “a lot of long days” or depression? Or a fun and flirty combination of the two perhaps. I know that’s what I’ve got.
> 
> Sometimes I think if I could just find the right person. If I could find someone I could pour all my care into until it spilled back onto me, then I’d feel better. Don’t waste the pixels, I know it doesn’t work like that. But god it’s nice to daydream about.
> 
> Greatest Sincerity,
> 
> Martin (there must be a million Martins in London, you can’t find and murder me with that, can you?)”

He got up after that, went about his nighttime routine thinking the conversation over, and over, and over. By the time he slipped into bed he’d caught himself smiling twice and also repeatedly convinced himself that he committed dozens of unforgivable faux pas. Faux pas-es?

He plugged in his phone. Checked for a message, just in case, even though it was late now.

There was another one.

It wasn’t even _actually late_. (Because technically it was morning, but still.)

He could sleep later.


	2. Feel the Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic, and this chapter specifically, is kind of a lowkey roundabout remix of the_ragnarok’s fic _[the only one in my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919353)._ I highly recommend every single TMA fic [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok) has ever posted tbh.
> 
> Note that this chapter starts with a sexually explicit scene. In it, Martin’s equipment is talked about vaguely most of the time but sometimes referred to with cock and hole.
> 
> It also includes long distance d/s activities including bladder control and a teensy bit of desperation kink
> 
> I think it’s pretty minimal but if you want to skip all mention of it (and the sex scene), go to the line “Martin shook his head, smiling far too fondly at his phone.”

“John, please.”

It was a voice message, because John always wanted to hear Martin and because it was deliciously difficult to make himself speak.

 **Please what?** the text came back. **Tell me what you’re feeling.**

“I feel full, desperate. Like I’m- god, turned on but also not quite. More than just turned on.”

**Why do you feel full?**

“I don’t- don’t have anything in me. If anything it feels empty. But I’ve got- my bladder, I-” Martin’s voice shook pathetically and he hated how he sounded but he sent the message off anyway.

**Tell me, sweetheart**

“I’ve got to pee.” He whispered, regretting the word choice immediately, held the record button for a little longer trying to decide if he should delete it and start over. “Piss” was a better word, right? That was what people said? Yeah “piss” sounded sexier, Martin was almost certain. God how could he be talking about this, doing this? And with someone he’d never even _met._

**C’mon, let me hear you**

**I’m so proud**

The messages came in and Martin whimpered. He still had his finger on the record button, knew it had picked up the noise, knew too that John would love to hear it.

He sent it before he could second guess himself.

**Oh darling**

Martin sighed, relaxed just a tiny bit into the sweet feeling of John’s imagined voice. Then he yelped and stuck a hand between his legs to pinch himself shut before the first drops of warmth could turn into a flood. He really didn’t want to ruin his mattress but also he was pretty sure if he went into the bathroom right now his normal conditioned response would be his undoing.

With his free hand he pressed record again.

“I almost went, just then. I’ve got a hand between my legs, holding it shut, holding everything in.”

**God I wish I could see you. Kneeling so well for me on your bed with your hands between your legs.**

**Are you wet?**

“Yes. But- But I don’t think I can get off. I don’t think, I uh, can wait that long?”

**Lie back, relieve the pressure a bit.**

Martin swayed to the side, slid his mostly numb feet out from under him, wincing at the pins and needles. He flopped back, squirmed a bit and sighed at the relief.

They’d been at this for a while already. John working him up with his lovely words, Martin squirming but not allowed to touch anything below the waist. John had had him playing with his nipples. Since top surgery, sensation on them generally just registered as pain, but that was kind of the point. Maybe it was just that they were still healing. It had only been a year after all.

Now the combination of soft sheets on his back, and the slight lessening of pressure made him sigh quietly. Shit, John would have wanted to hear that.

Then he realized he couldn’t reach his phone and swore under his breath, twisted around to grab it.

**How does that feel?**

“Better. Feels good. Feels like I can wait.”

**By my estimates you’re still within the normal, healthy time period**

The fact that John had done research—he’d told Martin about exact amounts of water and lengths of time earlier—struck Martin as deeply sweet. Martin knew by now that John did everything carefully, but it was nice nonetheless to fall under his care.

**But I can’t keep you waiting all night**

**Unfortunately**

**Ready for the next bit, darling?**

“Yes, yeah. Please.”

**Get your fingers nice and wet. Tell me how it feels.**

Martin closed his eyes, face hot and fingers trembling. Carefully, he slid them over himself, through the wet mess between his legs.

“John, it’s- it’s good- feeling- knowing I’m wet, filthy, for- mm- for you.” His voice was high, almost a whine, but he sent it anyway.

It was easier, slightly, talking about this part. He was already so worked up, his whole body felt warm from his cheeks to his cramping toes. It was overwhelming and wonderful and Martin was so out of his depth here. Still couldn’t really believe it was happening to him.

**Get that bullet vibe you told me about**

Martin fumbled for a minute in the sheets until he found the little purple vibrator he’d gotten out earlier in preparation.

**When you have it, I want you to turn the recording on and leave it on. Can you do that?**

Martin rested the base of the phone on his chest and texted back one handed.

_**I think so? Wait let me check if that works** _

Martin tapped the record button and then dragged it to one side to lock it on.

“Okay, hopefully you’d be able to hear this. But I guess not until I’m done and send it to you? We need to figure out a better-”

He was interrupted by another message and whatever he was saying didn’t matter anyway.

**If it works, I want you to get yourself off. I wish I could talk you through it but I want you to think about me listening to you.**

“God, John, I don’t think it’s possible to think of _anything else_ at the moment but you listening to me.”

Martin lay the phone down again, feeling self-conscious.

“You didn’t tell me what to do with the vibe but I- I can guess it’s meant to go on my cock. I mean, that’s what I’d usually do. Doing this all in one go is so much harder John, I sound like an idiot. But- but you want me to. You want to hear it, so I will.”

He turned the vibrator on and the buzz was loud. Made him glad Sasha had started dating the fit bloke and spent almost every night over at his now. The plus side was that the recording would definitely pick up the low thrumming sounds.

Tentatively he spread his legs, feeling himself pulse hotly for a second at being so exposed, even in an empty room. He cupped the vibrator in his free hand and brought it down, putting his wrists at rather odd angles.

“I’m- I’ve got my fingers almost in me, just the tips. I’m gonna- aah-!“

The first touch of rumbling plastic to his swollen cock felt amazing, almost too much already.

Without really thinking about it he slid his fingers deeper into his hole. Two fingers right away and it was easy, with how turned on he was. Crooked them up and bucked his hips instinctively.

“Fuck, John- John, it feels good. I’ve got two fingers in me now but god I could take more. Little bit difficult to reach though, from this angle. I think”—he crooked his fingers again, hard, and let out an audible whine—“I’m gonna- gonna just do this. For a bit. Think about you listening. Watching if you could. God, you know how I said I was feeling empty. Not anymore, Christ. You’d call me a good boy, know you would. Mm-!” Another noise, and he became aware of the slick sounds too, of his fingers working in him.

“Can you hear that, Jon? Want it so bad. God I can’t-”

He adjusted the bullet vibe a bit, so one end was sitting against the base of his cock and the other touched where his fingers entered himself. He felt the echo of the vibrations deep in him and moaned shakily.

He lost track of time for a bit. Not thinking about the recording or John or anything, mind hazy and desperate.

His pulse was loud in his ears, alongside his panting breaths and the constant buzz, it was like being underwater. It felt like he’d been worked up for ages but finally the pleasure was building, cresting.

He came with a cry as he curled in on himself, shaking, cock jerking and body clamping down on his fingers. He rode the aftershocks for a few long moments, little “uh- uh-” sounds punching out of him.

Finally it was too much and he drew the vibrator away with a last wavering sigh. Withdrawing his fingers was equally overwhelming but after a few long breaths he started coming back to himself, enough to think about John, about him hearing the recording. Part of Martin thought maybe he could go again in a minute, felt like the sensations were still hanging within reach. But they hadn’t talked about that and Martin honestly couldn't be bothered.

When he had come the phone had slid off his chest and onto the bed. He switched off the vibrator and dropped it beside him. Using that, clean(er), hand he scooped up his phone, wondering what he was supposed to say but too loose and fucked out to overthink it.

“Thanks, John. That was- yeah…”

He hit the send button and started to gather up everything, imagining John listening to the recording. Would he touch himself? He’d told Martin that physical intimacy got _too much_ a lot of the time, especially when someone else was directly involved. But after trying out a heap of non-sexual kink options that they’d both enjoyed, John had said he wanted to try something a bit more involved. 

The thought fled his mind though, when Martin went to stand up and his already shaky legs buckled at the wave of almost-desire. _Fuck,_ he still had to pee.

It had taken a back seat, lying down and chasing the more immediate pleasure. But now his bladder was firmly reminding him of his priorities and he shuddered all over at the sensation.

He struggled for a second, torn between grabbing his phone—perhaps sending another voice message, maybe texting John to ask permission—versus this newly pressing desire.

Whatever, he thought, he could always pretend to ask John’s permission after he got back.

Without another thought, still naked and hand brushing the wall for some kind of support, Martin took small, quick steps down the hall and into the bathroom.

Toilet seat up and Martin was relaxing overtired muscles before he was even fully sitting.

It was not as overwhelming a pleasure as orgasm, but damned if it wasn’t of a kind with it. The release of tension, the warm and undeniably enjoyable sensation. Martin held back a groan, because that would have been too much and now that the meat of the play was over, his self-consciousness was rearing its head once again.

By the time, finally, that there was only a trickle and then less falling to the waiting water, Martin was relaxed but undeniably blushing.

He grabbed some toilet tissue and blushed even more at the slickness still left between his legs. Took the time to clean himself a bit better. Then finally walked back to his room, collapsing onto his stomach and reaching for the phone.

**Martin, that was incredible**

**I got hard, listening to you but I think I’ll wait to touch myself**

**I may… relisten. If that’s alright?**

Those messages had come a couple of minutes ago. Then:

**Oh good lord, I forgot!**

**I hope you’re using the restroom, you must need to quite badly by this point**

**Let me know when you’re back**

The last one had been sent this very minute.

 _ **Back**_ , Martin sent, pleased that he didn’t seem to have to lie about it.

_**And you’re welcome to relisten. One of the pluses of recording it.** _

**God, you’re remarkable, Martin.**

Martin blushed again, but this time he smiled a little as well.

_**I got myself off. I didn’t perform brain surgery** _

**You clearly pushed through some anxiety when I couldn’t comfort you. And you sounded lovely. Remarkable. And I will hear no arguments.**

Martin touched the top of his phone to his forehead, biting his lip to keep from smiling unreasonably wide. Before he could decide what to respond, John texted again.

**Are you in your sleep things yet?**

**_No, just lying on the bed._ **

**Do you feel comfortable like that?**

The question itself, the small internal check-in, revealed that yeah, no. He was getting cold all along his back and he felt overly exposed.

_**No, not really. Hold on, I’m going to get some clothes on** _

He grabbed his oldest and loosest pair of boxers and was rummaging around for some bottoms when a thought occurred to him.

_**What should I wear?** _

They didn’t do this all the time. But it was one of the first things they’d tried. John couldn’t exactly afford to buy him clothes, and Martin wasn’t sure he’d feel comfortable accepting gifts even if it was an option. But John giving him specifications for what to wear (“only blue today” “something with a hole in it, then send me a picture”) had been a nice little way to feel cared for, as though John was watching over him all day. After a while he’d grown more knowledgeable of the options in Martin’s wardrobe and for Martin the process of getting dressed every morning—generally a boring or even vaguely uncomfortable affair given his body issues—had become a soothing ritual to reach for when he was worried about something.

He wasn’t worried now, but Martin knew John enjoyed the process too. And it just seemed like the thing to do.

**Oh Martin <3**

**The green flannel bottoms and the Underground map hoodie**

At some point Martin supposed he would stop being charmed at John’s careful cataloguing of Martin’s favorite items. But it certainly wouldn’t be today.

He found and donned the items, took a quick picture of his hand peeking out of the grey hoodie where it wrapped around his knees, and settled in against the headboard.

 _ **Excellent choice**_ he sent, along with the photo.

**How are you feeling now?**

**_Good. It was… really good._ **

**My personal poet ;P**

**_Haha sod off._ **

**_It was remarkable. Life changing. I’ve never enjoyed a piss quite like that._ **

**Hahahahaha**

**Mission accomplished then :))**

Martin shook his head, smiling far too fondly at his phone. It struck him sometimes how silly this was. That he got so happy, felt so safe, was so smitten, because of someone he had never even seen a picture of. Online dating wasn’t so strange but this? Jumping into this kind of kinky play with some rando, no matter how well they connected, was unequivocally a weird first relationship to have. He supposed having your first relationship at 26 was weird in and of itself.

Still, no matter how strange it was from the outside, the thing with John _did_ make Martin happy. He loved having someone he could text ten times in a row about something interesting he’d seen on the telly without worrying if he’d get mocked. He loved having someone who cared about how his day went.

And he knew it wasn’t just him. John often texted when he was anxious. He said he found Martin’s words, either recorded or typed, very soothing. Martin was always inexplicably relieved to hear that.

 _ **Do you have any plans for next weekend?**_ Martin asked, then wondered if that was clingy. They were dating but Martin always worried that John didn’t see it as _really_ dating. That John wasn’t as invested as Martin was.

Maybe he’d make some tea. Just decaf, at this hour, but some earl grey sounded like exactly what he needed.

Martin went and filled the kettle, set it to heating, before curling up against the arm of the sofa, knees up and phone resting on them.

**No, not as of yet.**

**Why? Did you already have some repeat performances in mind ;)**

Martin typed out a response. Stared at it for a minute. Scrunched his eyes closed and then opened them to see it still there on the screen. Finally, recklessly, telling himself he could play it off as a joke, he sent it.

_**Actually I was wondering if you wanted to meet up** _

It was an easy way to gauge John’s interest. If he said no, dodged the question, that was fine, Martin would get over it. What they had was nice. If he said yes, and then stood Martin up, that would be a little bit harder to swallow. But at least he’d know for sure.

No message came in. It’d only been 20 seconds, but still…

Maybe John would break things off now. Fuck, Martin didn’t want that. He liked John. He liked John so much.

But maybe ending it would be better. Martin was already in too deep. John would break it off and Martin would be miserable but at least he wouldn’t be walking around with all this stupid misguided hope in his chest.

**I would love that. Although I can’t pretend that I’m not nervous to meet. I’m not as good at things in person. I don’t have time to think and compose my thoughts properly and I end up saying the wrong thing far too often. In-person Me might not live up to your expectations. Still, I’d like to try, if you do.**

For a second Martin was just shocked, perhaps a little confused. He’d asked to meet but somehow hadn’t at all contemplated that John might actually want to, much less be adorably nervous about the prospect of impressing Martin.

Now the initial shock was being overlaid with jittery excitement.

_**Yeah, yeah. I’d like to.** _

**_I can’t imagine anything changing the way I feel about you_ **

Oh god, no that was way too sincere, wasn’t it. Shit, abort.

But the little typing indicator had already popped up, so Martin worried at his lip with his teeth and waited.

**That is understandable, reassuring even I suppose, since I feel the same way about meeting you**

**So… next weekend?**

Oh god, that was so soon. Why had Martin suggested something so soon?

_**Yes! If you’re free :)** _

**Actually I think I know a place. They usually have live music (metal mostly, not your thing) but they’re having a 90s themed club night next Saturday. We could go, relive our youth?**

Martin’s stomach tried to decide between fluttering and sinking.

_**I’m not much good at dancing… :(** _

**We don’t have to dance. We can get a drink, yell along to Mr. Brightside, then spend the rest the night texting each other, since there’s no way we’ll be able to hold an audible conversation**

**Actually on second thought maybe it is a silly idea...**

**_No, actually that sounds kind of lovely <3_ **

**Oh. Good :)**

Heart stuttering, Martin stood, decided he’d check if the kettle was nearly boiling yet.

He could really use that tea.


	3. Nothing Ever Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have put this in the first author’s note but that shit was long enough already so I’ll say it here. There’s a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0r9Ldy1Wgh06VpJyTsGJRr?si=RuoK4KHCQguRRHQy_aVaeg) I made and listened to religiously while working on this fic. A lot of this fic, including a scene in this chapter, was strongly inspired by the vibes of these songs, specifically Petey’s “More To Life Than Baseball”. The chapter titles are pulled from songs in that playlist.
> 
> No warnings that I can think of for this chapter.

It was hard getting dressed for your first meeting with the boyfriend who usually chose your outfits for you. Martin had not, in fact, thought about that when he’d calculated exactly how long he could agree to work on Saturday without being late. It was an extra shift, because he never turned those down, but _god_ he had miscalculated.

So it was 20:41 and Martin had just got out of the Tube station. They’d planned to meet at half past.

As his cell caught signal again, Martin sent off a message.

_**So! Soooo! Sorry!!! I’m almost there!!** _

Then he was pulling up the map and trying to decide, as he hurried past, which tiny door in a brick wall was an entrance to a new or old establishment versus a kitchen door or who knows what else. God, Soho was a trial sometimes.

In the end he found the queue before he found the club. Of course, he didn’t know that until he’d walked all the way past in, saw the name in chunky black letters on the yellow door, and had to backtrack to join at the end.

At least the line was moving briskly. Small mercies.

Still, as he stood in the chill evening the sweat on his face began to dry and he shivered in his jean jacket. It was one he’d found in the back of the closet, wine stained on the elbow but he’d been so excited at the prospect of surprising John with something he’d never seen before. Compared to that the stain and the way it pulled tight across the shoulders had seemed inconsequential. Now of course Martin felt deeply uncomfortable and was trying not to think about it.

He could hear the music, just barely, thrumming through the cracked brick walls of the club. A new song had just started, too soft to make out. From the sounds of the pleased crowd inside, it was a classic. Then the uneven canter of the bass started up and even muffled Martin recognized the song.

He couldn’t name it, had no idea who the artist was. But god, it sounded like childhood. Like the radio playing from the next flat over and Martin laid out flat on the living room floor, school books spread in front of him, so he could better hear the tune as he did homework (and kept out from underfoot while his mother made dinner).

It was a warm song, felt like summer air just listening to it. It reminded him of his best friend at the time, Jon, moving into the identical council flat opposite from Martin’s in the long warm fall before Year 8 started. He’d been new to the area, and had only his grandmother. And Martin, old enough to know that not everyone wanted to be his friend but young enough to still want for more, had honestly thought that maybe he could help someone with just his presence. They’d both been too “foreign,” too nerdy, too needy, to have a wealth of other friends.

Martin didn’t think of Jon often these days, but god for the year and a half he’d lived next to Martin, life had been pretty good. Jon had been his best friend, just briefly, but perhaps more genuinely than any other friend Martin had had since.

The song was ending, fading away until Martin couldn’t hear anything left. A few seconds of silence and then the unmistakable jangly start of “Tubthumping”, which properly broke Martin out of his memories and made him both laugh and roll his eyes.

Without really thinking about it, he’d moved with the queue, and as he focused back on it he realized he was almost to the front. He scrabbled in his pockets for his wallet and ID, so he’d be ready when the bouncer asked.

There was something nerve-wracking about presenting one’s ID. He wondered if it was normal, perhaps a trans thing. He had gotten his license updated quite recently with no fuss. But somehow he worried the bouncer would think he was lying, maybe the ID was fake. Was Martin really a 26 year old man? Nevermind that Martin had been legal to drink for almost a decade and even underage he’d never have thought about getting a fake ID for anything except possibly securing a more above-board job. But he wasn’t sure even now if his baby-face would betray him, so still the anxiety was there.

But the woman at the door barely glanced at his license before waving him in and Martin fumbled the card back into his wallet while trying not to fall down the short set of stairs that led down into the club.

In the dark, pounding din of the club, the individual worries that he had been pushing down rushed to arrive and solidify in his chest. Martin was late to meet his boyfriend in person for the first time while wearing a stained jacket and probably looking just like the sweaty teenage boy he’d wished to be when these songs had come out originally. The sudden jolting guitar of “What’s My Age Again” starting was really quite unnecessary, thank you very much.

Okay, a drink. Then he could find John with at least something to do with his hands.

He got a cider. Because honestly it was the only alcohol he enjoyed drinking sober and it was an easy way to start the night.

Then he checked his phone, saw that John had texted a few minutes before.

**I was a bit late myself. I’m over by the tables now though, find me when you get here :)**

Martin’s stomach settled slightly and he wound his way around the edge of the room towards the bar tables at the back of the club.

There was a little break in the crowd just as he made it to the first table and he peered around, looking for someone who looked like they were looking for someone.

Then his gaze caught on a figure. It looked almost like Jon, his Jon, the one he’d just been thinking of in queue for the first time in months.

Huh, thought Martin, funny how the brain plays tricks on you, summons ghosts from thin air with a thought. But then the person’s head turned just slightly towards him and _no_ , _that was Jon._

_What the fuck._

He was older, obviously, but unmistakable once the club’s dim lights properly caught his face.

Martin knew he should be finding John, his boyfriend John, the one he’d come here to meet. But the coincidence. The sheer kismet of running into a childhood friend right now was drawing Martin toward Jon almost without him really thinking about it.

Actually, he thought, it was quite funny that two men Martin knew with the same name, even one as common as theirs, would be in the same club at the same time.

Then Jon’s gaze landed on Martin and cautiously caught. Martin smiled a bit, probably a daft half-polite, half-bemused kind of smile. But Jon’s face lit up in reply.

Wow, he didn’t really expect Jon to recognize him that quickly. He didn’t exactly look like the pigtailed little “girl” he’d been then. Oh god, he was going to have to have an entire conversation about gender with this stranger who’d once been a friend. Fuck, Martin should have just pretended to not see him.

Finally, squeezing between the last two tables, he came up next to Jon.

“Jon?”

He was pretty sure, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Martin?”

Jon was still smiling a deeply sweet, familiar smile and it distracted Martin for a split second. But then it caught up that that name was not one Jon ever would have known him by.

Then a possible answer hit him in the chest.

“Wait, _John?_ ”

* * *

_It’s spring in Bournemouth and usually that would mean tourists crowding the beach. But the week has been terribly rainy and today was meant to be more of the same. When it dawns clear, bright, and warm, Martin doesn’t even have to wonder where Jon is. He just looks out the window, sees that across the way Jon’s blinds are already drawn back, and knows._

_Now the sand and rocks are getting caught in Martin’s ratty, hole-y, tennies as he skids the last few metres down the sloping beach to where Jon stands._

_The waves crash and a tiny bit of cool spray dusts Martin’s face. Jon is leaning against one of the larger pieces of driftwood, reading a book. It’s not one Martin has seen before, which of course means nothing. It’s a rare occasion that Jon takes more than a day to finish a book._

_He doesn’t look up as the loud cracking of rocks rattling together beneath shoes heralds Martin’s arrival. But he does smile a bit, still reading. Martin knows it is not because of the book. That is the smile Jon saves just for Martin._

_“Hey Jon.” A bit breathless, but Martin is excited. It’s always exciting to see Jon._

_The waves murmur familiarly. The whole world smells of salt and drying seaweed._

_“Hey, did you know that the Roman god, Mithras,”—they’d just covered Greek and Roman mythology in class so this name sounds familiar— “was actually loosely based on the Persian god, Mithra?”_

_“No, I didn’t know that. Tell me?”_

_This is, as usual, the exact encouragement Jon needs to begin explaining all the most exciting bits of the book he’s been reading. It’s apparently about Iranian religion from ancient times to today. Martin knows Jon wishes he knew more about his mother’s culture. He had admitted once, honest to a fault, that he was jealous that Martin still had his mother, could still learn her recipes, hear her stories, see a face that looked like his._

_His grandmother kept kosher like Jon, went to the synagogue with him, but in the end the only times they really looked alike was when they were wearing their matching thinking-scowls._

_Martin accepted Jon’s jealousy as his due. Martin didn’t know any recipes, didn’t get to hear stories, didn’t like looking in the mirror. His mother hadn’t had much time for all that. And since his father left, it was more pronounced. No Tagalog in the house, no home-cooked lunches. Like her culture—_ their _culture—was a precious secret or a dangerous complication, neither of which Martin could be trusted with._

_But that could change. Because he was thirteen and it had only been the two of them for a few years and his mother was going to get better soon. She was going to stop snapping and go back to singing_ mga uyayi _to him when he cried at night. She was going to start smiling and laughing and caring again. As long as she was there, she could be his mother. Jon didn’t even have that option._

_Right now, Martin is searching the ground by their feet, listening intently as Jon speaks. He finds a rock that is infinitesimally darker and prettier than the rest. He picks it up, dusts the gritty wet sand from its surface with soft fingertips, and offers it to Jon._

_He pauses, book propped on his knee, and takes it. Examines it, serious and contemplative. Martin feels equally assessed, hand hovering awkwardly, ready to pluck the rock away if it’s deemed inferior._

_But between one wave crashing and the next, Jon decides._

_“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” They both know it’s an exaggeration but Martin still feels lit up with it. Almost as if Jon had called Martin himself beautiful._

_His mother’s friends call him beautiful sometimes. Martin doesn’t really like it. But it feels different when Jon says it._

_Jon moves to drop the rock back into Martin’s waiting palm, but when Martin curls his hand around it, Jon doesn’t let go. The cool stone sits in the shared space of their fingers for long moments._

_Martin thinks, suddenly, that he never wants this summer, this morning, this moment, to pass. Simultaneously, he wants to be grown up already, sitting on this beach with Jon._

_“You’re my best friend.” It comes out far too earnest, almost painfully heartfelt. Martin’s face starts to feel warm, but Jon nods immediately._

_“Mine too,” he says, as if it was never even a question._

_Martin isn’t sure he’s ever been someone’s best friend before._

_The stone is as warm as their hands now and the salt wind off the sea cools Martin’s cheeks._

_He wonders if he could be Jon’s girlfriend. If they could get married and be best friends forever._

_The thought jars him and when a gull cries, loud and close, Martin uses the excuse to pull the rock back guiltily._

_He throws it, overhand and vehement, into the waiting ocean and doesn’t think about what Jon’s face looks like. He can’t be anyone’s girlfriend. Not even Jon’s._

_Besides which, marrying Jon would just mean he could leave Martin behind, like his father._

_“I think my mum said something about going to the Filipino market today,”—she had said no such thing, but Jon didn’t have to know that—”so I should probably get going.”_

_“Wait, M-”_

_“We should talk tomorrow though.” And then Martin briskly brushes invisible sand off his trousers, grateful his mother hadn’t been awake to insist on a skirt, and flashes Jon a wide smile before taking off back up the beach. “I’ll be seein’ you.”_

_This is what they always say at the end of a conversation. It’s a line from one of Jon’s books, although Martin doesn’t have a hope of remembering which one. It was a joke at first and now it’s just… them._

_“Not if I see you first,” Jon replies, as he always does. But he sounds far off, distracted, moved on. Martin doesn’t look back over his shoulder and he sharply smothers the hurt and the guilt and the longing in his stomach._


	4. Being A Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body image and intimacy issues in this chapter.

There were street sounds coming in through the open window and Jon’s cat, who he called The Admiral, was sitting on Martin’s feet and purring loudly.

Jon had apologized when he’d let Martin into the flat because the overhead lights in the living room had been out for months so they had to rely on standing- and table-lamps scattered about. It meant they were bathed now in a warm, uneven glow.

Martin was sitting with his knees pulled up on the couch facing Jon, who was sitting cross-legged at the other end, with the aforementioned cat cuddled between them.

It was getting late and the cold air was coming in alongside the nighttime noises from the street below. But when Jon had gotten up last he hadn’t closed it, instead going into his room and getting a thick, familiar quilt, presumably from his bed.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin had said, smiling hesitant and awed. It was Jon’s father’s quilt, that his grandmother had kept and which Martin and Jon had spent many a night hiding under to stop their whispered words and flashlights from disturbing her.

“I’ve brought it with me to every apartment I’ve moved to,” Jon had said, sounding almost sheepish.

It didn’t smell the same, exactly, couldn’t be expected to after all these years, but the comforting weight of it was just as Martin remembered it.

Sitting under it now, feet warmed by a purring cat, it was what Martin imagined a loving hug would feel like. Jon, across from him, was talking about their Year 7 Music teacher and how he still remembered her every time he did vocal warm ups.

Apparently Jon sang in a little no-name queer punk band named after a Richard Siken poem of all things. Looking at him, Martin could believe it. He had shiny silver jewelry decorating his eyebrow, nose, lip, not to mention several ear piercings. It wasn’t something Martin had ever consciously thought of as attractive, but on Jon it was absolutely arresting.

And of course, if anyone could be doing a Master’s at Imperial College and still have time to devote to creative hobbies, it would be Jon.

Asking about the band led into a discussion of Jewish punks.

“There’s a whole little subculture of Jewish punk bands in America. All small outfits though, none have toured here yet. The sound is less gritty than the original punks, many of which had members who were open about being Jewish, to greater or lesser degrees. Technically we could call ourselves a Jewish punk band, as me and Georgie and Melanie and Gerry are all Jewish. And we’ve talked about it but-

“Oh goodness, Martin, I’ve been talking this whole time haven’t I?”

“It’s fine,” Martin rushed to say. “I like listening to you.”

“You always did let me ramble far too much.” It was said with a smile and Martin bit the inside of his lip.

He tried to think of what to say. The fact was that he’d always let Jon ramble because it was soothing. He didn’t have to worry about filling awkward gaps in the conversation and instead could just listen and interject with a question or comment if he felt keen to.

His mind hit on a topic, even such a silly one, and it was a relief.

“I can’t believe you let me think your name was John this whole time, good lord.”

“My name _is_ Jon,” he said, adorably indignant.

“J-O-N is _not_ the same as J-O-H-N. Not even close.”

“It’s the same name!”

“It’s not.” It was fun, teasing him. As a child he was largely too shy, but right now he was feeling buoyed. “Not at all. This whole time I thought maybe you were American!”

This time Jon gasped a bit. Martin was 90% sure it was genuine.

“No, you didn’t, did you?”

“The Americans spell it with a ‘h,’ Jon. Every time you said something British I thought maybe you were trying to be sneaky about how American you were.”

Jon laughed and it was a sweet, bright sound, just like Martin remembered. You couldn’t help but smile when you heard that laugh.

“God, Martin, I can’t believe you’d get off with someone you thought was a closet American.”

Martin laughed reflexively, before the sentence even processed and when it did the carefree sound choked and died in his throat.

Oh right. Jon, sitting before him, reminding him clear as day of every single good memory he had of his childhood, was also John, the man who knew all of Martin’s weird dirty fantasies that he’d thought he was telling to a stranger. Oh god, Jon had heard the sound of him fucking himself with his fingers. Oh Jesus.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice was soft and concerned. Martin couldn’t be sure it was the first time he’d said Martin’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Martin blurted out, not really thinking, just filled up and choking on shame.

“I was the one technically using a false name, even if I do use it everywhere these days.” He was still smiling a little, trying to turn the mood back around.

“I shouldn’t have- I told you all those things, we had- god, does it count as sex?” He knows he sounds a bit hysterical, tries to calm the wobble in his voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Jon’s expression was confused, concerned—Martin wouldn’t let himself say it was pitying.

“Why shouldn’t you have? We only did things that we both wanted.” A pause, a more crumpled expression that makes Martin’s chest ache harder still. “Are you- do you regret it now that you know it was me?”

“No, no, well-“ he barreled on, staring at his own knotted hands. “Now that I know it was anyone really. I thought- it was easy, you know, when you were more an idea of a person than the real thing. But now you can _see me_.” He whispered the last bit, unable to really convey the stomach churning horror of it. To be seen, to be seen and thought of as a sexual being, it made his eyes sting to think he’d put that on someone.

“I don’t- Martin, I-“ Jon stumbled, stopped, started again, voice even softer. “You know there’s nothing wrong with the way you look, right? Or with being sexual? I don’t know quite what the matter is but just, Martin, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Martin stared resolutely at his hands and breathed shallowly, as if this would somehow mask the sudden tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I don’t-“ Jon continued, “well I don’t generally feel sexual attraction. The idea of looking at someone and thinking straightaway ‘Ah, yes, I would like to fuck them,’ is a bit absurd for me to imagine.” 

Martin nodded, not sure if he was acknowledging or agreeing. Most of the time, when he looked at someone attractive he just felt uncomfortable.

“But Martin, I know you. And you’re…” Martin holds his breath although he hates that he’s doing it. “You’re lovely. I would love to know you inside and out. I’ve told you I sometimes get overwhelmed, with sexual intimacy it can be too much sometimes. So I can’t make any promises. But I definitely want to try.” A pause, more silent tears. “If you’re still interested,” Jon finished, sounding small.

Martin inhaled, soggy. He exhaled, shaky. He could feel that he was on the cusp of something. He was hopeful, happiness beginning to blossom in his chest, but still scared, always scared.

He looked up at Jon’s careful, kind, pierced, beloved face, and nodded, just slightly.

Jon seemed to track the movement. They were both so focused on each other. He opened his mouth, possibly to confirm… and the flat door rattled and swung open.

“Hey Jon, I kn-”

A short-haired, fat, Black woman dropped her keys on the table just inside the door and looked up as she spoke. The sight they must have made—Jon tense, Martin’s face probably splotchy and ugly from crying—quieted her instantly. She barely floundered for a full second before she bounced back though.

“Shite, I knew you had a date tonight but I came in anyway. I’m so sorry, Melanie forgot her mobile charger and she’s going to be gone for a few days on a shoot so she’ll need it. Just pretend I’m not here, I will be in and out in two seconds.”

Jon seemed finally to have recovered.

“It’s fine, Georgie. This is Martin. Martin? Georgie.”

Right, Georgie. Jon’s ex and best friend and flatmate. Martin felt his tear-stained face heat, hurriedly swallowed a few times, then jumped up.

“Right, well I’ll get out of your hair then!” Jon started to protest but Martin didn’t even slow down for a second, dodging him and Georgie to pull on his shoes. “Don’t want to chase you out of your own flat, Georgie. Lovely to meet you though. And Jon-” He stumbled here, felt something yawning and cold in his chest that for just a second had been gone.

“Martin…” Jon’s voice was soft, pleading even, promising warmth and care.

“We’ll text,” Martin said, trying to sound unaffected. He forced a smile and ran out the door.

Jon lived on the third floor so the stairs down went quickly enough. Martin was already compartmentalizing. He couldn’t very well cry the whole tube ride home, that would be ridiculous. No, he would just box it away and maybe think about it later. Much later. First he had to get a map to the nearest station. That was more important right now than the hurt look on Jon’s face.

It wasn’t, of course. But there was only so much that Martin could deal with right now and currently he needed to get home.

He opened the outer door and the air was sharp, biting even though it couldn’t be below 7 degrees at worst. He cleared the stoop and paused to pull up directions.

“Martin!” It was a low shout, but carried down. Jon was leaning out the window, face in shadow but arms braced decisively. “I’ll be seein’ you, Martin Blackwood.”

He paused, whole body shocked into stillness. He couldn’t see Jon’s face, but he swore he could feel Jon’s soft gaze on him.

Martin had never, he realized in that moment, felt like someone cared about him more than Jon did just then.

Only not just then. Did care, had cared, would continue to care.

Martin felt full on the inside and protected on the outside.

“Not if I see you first, Jon Sims.”


	5. Epilogue

It is the first day of summer and Martin is watching Jon drive down the M3. Jon’s hair is tied back because the air con in the car isn’t too good and they’ve got all the windows wide open. The neat little braid is starting to lose strands to the whipping wind though, and Martin loves to see the first few strands of grey catch the sun. Jon hates them, says twenty-six is too young to go grey, but Martin adores them.

It’s a Friday and Martin took the afternoon off. Jon is on summer hols and they are going to Bournemouth for the weekend.

Even now it feels silly, self-indulgent. Neither he nor Jon are prone to wasting money on themselves. But Jon wanted Martin to have a fun little trip and Martin thought that it would be good for Jon and so they’d managed to agree on something.

The traffic is awful, of course, getting out of London. But they are far enough out now that the road has cleared a bit. That’s good because while it’s Jon’s car they’re taking, Martin has never totally gotten used to his boyfriend’s too-fast, too-abrupt driving style. He had negotiated to take the drive back, when they would both be tired and Jon’s terrible night vision would be a detriment. 

As it is, Martin is in charge of navigation and music, naturally. He’s spent most of the last two weeks working on the perfect playlist. He sneaks a peek at what song’s coming up next, and smiles.

“Cheers if you know why I picked this song,” Martin says, just as the first strummed guitar chord starts up.

“Because it’s as old as I am?” Jon guesses, eyebrow raised and smirking.

“Pssh, you wish, old man.”

Jon laughs, reckless and loud over the music and the wind.

Martin turns it down a tad, so it’s just thumping along in the background.

“This was playing the night we met. Well, re-met, you know what I mean.”

Jon flashes a look over to him and his face is so open and beautiful Martin smiles helplessly.

“I remember, now that you mention it.”

“I’m glad I re-met you, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon fumbles over to grab Martin’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently.

“I’m glad for every day I’ve known you, Martin Blackwood.”

Martin’s heart never stops acting up when Jon gets romantic. This is no exception.

“After all, what would I do without you and your brilliant taste in 90s music?”

Martin tries to snatch his hand back, mock offended, but Jon laughs and holds tighter, and Martin loves nothing and no one more than this man.

The next hour and a half passes quickly and the sun is still well up when they start hitting the outer bits of Bournemouth. Not quite as busy as London, but the foot traffic is quite heavy and Jon’s face scrunches up as he concentrates on not running over any idiot tourists.

Martin, in turn, is looking for their AirBnB. It’s a new building but they’d chosen it because it was close to their old block.

Parking is, predictably, a nightmare.

“Whose brilliant idea was it to go to a seaside town on the first day of summer?” Jon jokes as they get out of the car.

“Hmm, _definitely_ mine.” It was no such thing. Jon had insisted it was fitting and surely the weather wouldn’t actually be good enough by then to get too many visitors.

“You and your poetic heart will be the death of us.”

Jon rushes to take both of their bags, just to prove he can. Martin usually insists on carrying groceries and things and Jon always pouts.

The AirBnB is nice. No contact check in and it’s got fans in every window, ready to be turned on. Which is good because it’s getting on in the day but it’s still over 25 degrees inside.

“You know what would be good right now?” Jon asks, standing directly in front of a fan with the loose strands of his hair sticking to his face.

“Mm, what?” Martin is better about heat but he’d still collapsed onto the couch as soon as they’d walked in.

“Ice candy.”

“Oh my god, Jon!” Martin is instantly revived, excited just by the memory. He catches the edge of Jon’s pleased smile. “How do you even remember those?”

“They were only your favorite snack all through summer, Martin.”

“God I would kill for some buko ice candy right now.”

“Mmm.” Jon is on his phone, turned to the fan still.

“Mango was your favorite though, wasn’t it? I haven’t had any in ages.”

“Do you want to?”

“What-”

Jon steps over and shows Martin his phone screen. It’s a map result for a Filipino grocery store. Not just any store, but the one three blocks from here that Martin had always gone to as a kid.

“There’s no way they’re still operating,” Martin says, disbelieving, even as he scrolls down and sees the _Open Now_ , in green letters. “Well, that’s settled!”

He springs up and Jon looks like he’s realized this means walking three blocks in the sun.

“I’ll be worth it,” Martin reassures, kissing Jon briefly on his sweaty cheek.

“For love and ice candy,” Jon says in his most long-suffering tone, “lead on.”

It’s only in the last block that Martin starts to worry. What if the owner recognizes him? What if he remembers Martin’s mother?

It’s completely ludicrous, neither of them have lived nearby for over a decade, but still Martin starts to worry at his lip.

Jon must notice because he slips a hand into Martin’s.

“For love and ice candy,” he says, and Martin can’t help smiling.

The shopkeeper doesn’t recognize him, of course. But Martin feels such a strong rush of _something_ seeing the old aisles and the old goods, it’s as if he’d just been here yesterday. 

He ends up buying more than just the ice candy. Fudgee Barrs and tamarind candy. Jon has a few additions to their basket too, primarily mango in various forms.

When they get up to the register, Jon asks, too innocently, “Do you speak Tagalog? My partner is learning.”

The old man looks at Martin, smiles, must notice the terror on Martin’s face, and throws a soft ball:

“Kumusta?”

“Mabuti naman po,” Martin replies, relieved to know this one.

“Tagasaan ka?”

“Uh, London.” He doesn’t say “I’m from here actually!” because it would open up a can of worms and also partially because he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Mag-ingat ka, iho.”

Martin feels himself flush a little, pleased. He’d not gotten a chance to be anyone’s iho the first time around. 

Jon, Martin notices, is looking very proud of himself. He’s always trying to get Martin to practice his Tagalog more, the jerk.

“Siya na po ang magbabayad ng lahat,” Martin says, and goes to pack their purchases up. Jon doesn’t notice until the shopkeeper looks at him expectantly and he shoots Martin a look as he pulls out his wallet.

“Really, Martin,” Jon says once they’re outside, “cheating an old man out of his last red penny?”

“You didn’t-“ Martin starts to turn back, appalled.

“Goodness, no not him, Martin. _Me._ ”

“Oh,” he says, smiling again.

A pause then he adds, “Do you want to go to the beach?”

“What, now? With our groceries?”

“You’re not the one carrying them, love.”

Jon pouts for a second before giving it up with a soft, happy huff.

“Yes, dear, that sounds lovely.”

The sun has started to set by the time they get down to the shore and most folks seem to have cleared off the street, either to dinner or pubs or some other diversion.

Jon leads and he finds a spot where the concrete barrier goes almost right down to the waves. Martin sets the bags down and they sit, pulling out some ice candy (only a little bit melted).

“The neighborhood doesn’t look the same,” Martin remarks after a while of sitting shoulder to shoulder, plastic wrappers now balled, sticky, in between them.

“No, I don’t suppose it would.” And then, “Do you still want to go by our old buildings?”

“Mm, not sure exactly. What if it’s… different? Run down or prettied up or any of it.”

“You’re right neither of those options sounds particularly appealing. But it could be interesting, just to see.”

Martin hums a little, playing with a ripped bit of Jon’s jeans.

“It’s just- I suppose I’m worried it’ll disturb the memories. That I’ll not have that building and that time in my head after seeing it again.”

Jon looks up at the side of Martin’s face, studies it for a moment. Martin doesn’t look back but he also doesn’t mind.

“That’s not us anymore, Martin.”

Martin huffs.

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“I just mean, we had good memories, and they seem perfect looking back. But we’ll have new experiences, and they will feel just as good to live, to remember.” Jon catches Martin’s face with a hand and turns him so they’re foreheads are touching. “The best bits of life aren’t behind us.”

Martin sits. He wouldn’t have believed that statement a year ago. Not because it was less true then, but because it’s easy to forget, when the downswing comes, that things get better again. But the waves crash and there’s wind coming off the ocean. Jon’s too close to see and their glasses are pressed uncomfortably into their faces but it feels good. Real.

“That’d make a good lyric if you ever wrote any songs-”

Jon laughs, swats at Martin’s hand on his knee.

“I told you, punk bands don’t _have_ happy songs. That’s how it works.”

Martin pulls back just enough to kiss Jon’s forehead.

“Love you,” he murmurs directly into Jon’s skin.

“Love you too.”

They both pull back a bit.

“Now if you’d like to make some of those nice memories, I was thinking we could go back to the rental and I can see how many times I can make you come before we both get too sweaty for it to be fun anymore.”

“Jon!” Martin laughs, looking around to see if anyone overheard.

It’s still embarrassing, those things. The idea of being known and touched. But Jon gets it, and it feels good.

And he thinks if there’s anyone he can trust to see every inch of him and love all of it, it’s Jon.

So he looks sideways and catches Jon’s gaze. He’s smirking, like he knows what Martin is going to say.

“Yeah, alright, you menace.”


End file.
